


The Nobel Prize of Bad Decisions

by Monksandbones



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, F/M, Infidelity, Mildly Dubious Consent, Not Quite Hatesex, Office Sex, POV Female Character, Remix, Season/Series 03, Talking About It Almost Like Grownups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-14
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2020-12-15 21:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21025373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Monksandbones/pseuds/Monksandbones
Summary: Oh, fuck. The damage is already done, isn’t it?





	The Nobel Prize of Bad Decisions

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [He Has No Idea](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8470801) by [amoama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amoama/pseuds/amoama). 

> Thanks to [misbegotten](/users/misbegotten/) for beta-reading and making excellent suggestions for improving the parts of this that gave me the most trouble, and thanks to [amoama](/users/amoama/) for writing the delightful fic that inspired this one. You should go and read it first!
> 
> I've borrowed some dialogue directly from [amoama](/users/amoama/)'s fic, but I take full responsibility for everything else. In particular, all failures of britpicking lie at my own (Canadian) feet.

The cock-up with the immigration figures is, firstly, minor, and secondly, not by any stretch of the imagination Nicola’s fault. The error went undetected through at least three rounds of proofreading before the final draft of the press release reached her desk, and that is ground she’s prepared to defend tooth and nail if need be. Terri has already issued a correction, and the actual numbers are better than the ones they initially published. There’s no reason at all for Malcolm to be involved.

It’s immensely irritating, therefore, that Nicola has had to change into one of her ministerial funeral suits and present herself at Number 10 so that he can explain to her exactly how the transposed digits—_I said we corrected them, Malcolm!_—are entirely her fault, as well as a disaster that is obviously beyond her capacity for com-pre-fucking-hension.

“Look,” he says, with a little ‘are you fucking following this’ gesture, “It’s as if you grabbed a kid in the middle of Victoria fucking Station, right? And cut off one of its arms and one of its legs, then sewed its leg back on where its arm should be and its fucking arm where its leg should be.”

His voice rises as he speaks, and there it is. That’s the sound of Malcolm winding up for a massive rant. Just what she needs this afternoon, Malcolm acting like the appropriate response to a tiny slip-up is to fire up the Death Star and obliterate the planet. Suggesting he keep things in perspective has never headed him off before, but if she keeps trying surely she’ll get through to him one day.

“If I could interrupt for just a moment, Malcolm, this is a minor failure of the fucking system, not a cabinet minister starring in a _Saw_ sequel.”

“Yeah, but who fucking signed off on the press release?” Now he’s pacing behind his desk like a caged animal. This clearly isn’t going to be the day he develops a sense of proportion. “Do you give the tiniest, most insignificant fuck about your job? Because I’m looking for it with a microscope here and I don’t see it.”

That’s a low fucking blow. Malcolm knows the rubbish she has to put up with at DoSAC, probably better than anyone else. Sometimes, and this is one of those times, it seems like the department exists mainly to be a holding pen for the nation’s least competent civil servants. That would explain the nonexistent budget, and the rest of it. It’s no wonder so many senior MPs turned down the portfolio. Other ministers don’t have these problems. Of course, other ministers don’t have their au pairs ringing them in the middle of cabinet meetings, either, threatening to run away and become strippers—_it would be better than dealing with your bloody kids!_—not to mention husbands like James, letting them down humiliatingly at every turn.

At least Malcolm cares. He’s invested in the process. As infuriating as it is, he’s trying to help, in his own high-handed, overdramatic way. Unlike James, who refuses to get involved and only cares about results—and even then only when it’s something he can brag about at his rugby club between rounds of cigars and ball-and-chain jokes with the old boys. God forbid she ever succeed in reducing social inequality; James will probably chuck her immediately for some blonde Tory socialite.

Malcolm is still ranting. He’s stepped around his desk to shout in her face, something about fucking man-eating piranhas and blood in the water. Nothing that has happened today, certainly not the stupid thing with the immigration figures, is worth getting this worked up about. It’s not as if they don’t both know that the government is on the rocks, sinking faster than the Titanic across every demographic in voting intention polls. There have been a number of times lately, in the middle of his increasingly-frequent bollockings, when he’s looked her in the eye with an expression that made her wonder if he was actually going to admit as much to her. Of course, if he did then he’d have to hack her to bits and bury her in a shallow grave so he could pretend he’d never said it, but surely he’s at least admitted it to himself.

God, he looks totally shattered, like the vitriol pouring out of him might be the only thing keeping him upright. If one of her kids looked like that she’d march them to bed straight away and probably keep them off school for the week. He’s going to have a heart attack or a stroke or something if he carries on like this. She’d almost feel sorry for him, if only…

His tirade cuts off abruptly. “You’re not even fucking listening, are you?” There’s a new sharpness to his voice. “I can’t keep your cesspit of a department from going off the rails without some fucking buy-in.”

He’s suddenly too close, looming over her. She’s listening now. 

It’s too late. His hands close around her biceps, and he’s hauling her out of her chair, dragging her to her feet. His grip is painfully tight. She can’t move. She can’t think. Oh, fuck. She’s been stupid, so stupid, not to see this coming. He’s going to shake her, or something even worse, and she won’t be able to stop him.

Except he doesn’t move. He seems to have frozen, fingers digging her arms, looking as shocked as she feels. For a moment nothing happens, as if they’re teetering on the edge of a cliff together.

Then he leans in and—his lips land on hers. Oh. _Oh_. That’s an about-turn she wasn’t prepared for. It’s not as though she’s ever thought much about kissing Malcolm. Fantasized about telling him, in every conceivable way, to get stuffed? Of course. Imagined garrotting him with his own tie? In graphic detail. But kissing? No. Maybe should have thought about it, though, because now that it’s happening, she’s practically vaporizing, her body making its own 180 from terror to _fuck yes_ in a matter of seconds. Instead of pushing him away or slapping him like he deserves, she’s opening her mouth and kissing him back, sliding her hands under his jacket to pull him closer.

He’s the one to break away. “Do you mind?” he demands, disengaging from her mouth, and what kind of question is that? Does she mind what? Mind if he kisses her? That ship has sailed. It weighed anchor at Liverpool with a fair wind and is already mid-Atlantic under full sail. Her lips and tongue are still warm and tingling with the sensation of his mouth on hers, and when he repeats the question with a growl, she can’t help pressing herself against him, just a little.

Malcolm won’t let it go, though. He’s staring down at her insistently, face flushed and chest heaving. He looks strained and desperate—and this is some kind of metal breakdown, isn’t it? He hasn’t had a stroke; the pressure of trying to save the government from itself has tipped him right over the edge. This is exactly the kind of stupid, self-destructive thing he does when he’s at the end of his tether. He throws punches—or chow mein, once, according to Ollie. Or rubs himself against a cabinet minister in his office in Number 10 like he’s doing now, letting her feel how deliciously hard he is.

Oh, God. Perhaps there’s something in the water in Westminster today, because that feels good. It feels gratifying. It’s been a long time since she’s—well. It has been a really bloody long time since anyone came on to her, let alone tried something so utterly foolhardy to get into her knickers. If that’s what Malcolm is trying to do. 

If he even knows what he’s doing.

She should put a stop to it. He’s exhausted. He’s not thinking clearly. He put his hands on her—kissed her. She shouldn’t let it go on if he’s not well. She takes a steadying breath and pushes her hair off her face and opens her mouth to say—what? _What the fuck, Malcolm?_ Accurate, obviously. _I’m flattered, but it would be a terrible idea to continue this?_ Also accurate, and the sensible response, given that she’s the only one capable of sound judgement at the moment. _Fuck off, and let’s never speak of this again, even though we both know you’ll find a way to use it against me?_

Oh, fuck. The damage is already done, isn’t it? She’s the one who should be having the breakdown. He’s the legendary spin doctor, the dark lord of Downing Street, never mind that he’s gone a bit wobbly just now. She’s the disposable one, the last-minute addition to cabinet whose career won’t survive a sex scandal. What’s more, she’s married, although that argument ought to carry more weight with her than it does at present, absolutely no thanks to that tosser James.

This is a perfect storm: cringe-inducing headlines that Malcolm will probably dictate himself, a sudden resignation _for personal reasons_, a messy divorce. The problem is, she can’t quite bring herself to care. Kissing Malcolm is somehow the most enjoyable thing that’s happened to her in ages, and isn’t that, in itself, a terrible indictment of her life? Does it even really matter if she lets this go further? Malcolm already has everything he needs to spin her career and marriage straight down the toilet once he’s back in his right mind, and maybe she should let him do it, burn it all down and salt the fields and start over somewhere else.

“Do you fucking mind if I fucking kiss you?” he snaps. It’s like he can sense that she’s actually considering it. “Do you object to me sticking my fucking tongue down your fucking throat so we don’t have to fucking shout at each other for at least the next ten minutes?”

Jesus. Has he always been this attractive when he’s hacked off? Possibly she’s always been too busy arguing with him to notice it before. Now that she sees it, though, she’s going to walk right into this disaster in the making, isn’t she? She’s going to let it happen, and she’s going to take what she can get before the shit starts bucketing down.

She stammers something affirmative and he kisses her again, cupping her face and licking into her mouth. He’s a good kisser, and she should definitely have thought a lot more about kissing him. It’s a far better use of his mouth than anything he’s ever said to her. He can plot against her all he wants if he keeps doing that with his tongue.

But he pulls away and checks—again—that she’s saying yes. Now she’s the one running out of patience. It’s not fair for him to kiss her like that, and liquefy every part of her body below her waist, as well as a few above it, only to stop short because he’s having an attack of the scruples.

“Fuck, Malcolm, stop asking me to think about it. Get the fuck on with it. Yes.”

That seems to finally prod him into action. He backs her against his desk and runs his hands down her thighs to tug at the hem of her horrible pencil skirt. The dress she was wearing earlier would have given him better access, but that’s his own fault for insisting she always put on a suit to visit Number 10. She leaves him to wrestle with her skirt while she attacks his tie. He’s not going to shag her wearing a tie. Or at least, not wearing it around his neck, held in place with a crooked half-windsor. He’s not likely to let her tie him up with it, either, although that certainly is a thought.

She lets the tie slip to the floor—where it belongs, it’s one of his hideous striped ones—as he finally gets his hand under the waistband of her stupid magicwear tights and works it down between her legs. She’s aching for him to touch her, but he pauses again, cupping her, pinning her with a look like he’s giving her one last chance to back out. It’s as if he’s trying to be courteous, of all things. She might have enjoyed it any other time, or at least snapped a photo on her mobile to prove that it’s possible, but he’s wasting it on her now. She squirms and growls at him in frustration until his fingers slide over and inside her.

As with his mouth, so with his hands. All those theatrical gestures, yet she’s previously failed to consider the possibilities of his long, clever hands. He somehow manages to kiss her, work her with his fingers, and continue his battle against her tights all at once, and it’s good. The firm strokes of his fingers are heating her from the inside out. It’s all she can do to clutch at him as he brings her closer and closer to the edge—but no. It’s too soon. He hasn’t even undone his flies yet. He should be coming apart alongside her, not standing coolly by as he reduces her to quivering jelly. 

Though maybe he’s already more undone than she thought, because he unravels when she shoves his hands away and tells him to find the emergency condom in her purse. He can’t seem to cope with the concept, as if men haven’t been carrying condoms in their disgusting, grubby wallets since there were condoms and wallets. He’s bizarrely quick to jump from insulting questions about extracurricular shagging to insinuations about shagging Ollie in particular, which—for fuck’s sake, that’s just offensive. Despite what the current situation might imply, she does have standards.

“Get the condom on your fucking dick before I come to my senses and work out what it is you’re trying to achieve here,” she says, as she peels off her tights and knickers and hoists herself onto the edge of his desk. “Are there cameras? Is this a ploy to get me sacked from DoSAC?”

It’s not a real threat—at this point she’d probably still shag him even if she really did think he was secretly filming her—but the dig about Ollie is crying out for a comeback. Ollie, really?

He doesn’t answer, too busy pawing frantically through her handbag, making a mess she’ll have to sort out later as he retrieves the condom. He’s shaking as he undoes his trousers and fumbles with the packet. It’s fucking flattering. Gagging for it is an excellent look on him. She’s going to have to remember, later, when all this inevitably goes sideways, that she made him look like that.

It feels like it takes forever for him to get the condom on, and okay, so maybe he’s not the only one gagging for it. She spreads her legs and pulls him against her as soon as he’s ready.

“Come on Malcolm,” she says, because he seems like he needs directing, “Get a grip and let’s do this.” It comes out in the tone she’d use if she were chasing him down a corridor, trying to make him turn around and carry on an argument with her. From the look that passes over his face, he recognizes it. If she gets out of this with her career intact—well, it’s probably a good thing she won’t. There’s no way they’re going to be able to salvage even a semblance of a professional working relationship after this.

Malcolm takes a deep breath and lines them up, and yes, this is a terrible idea, except that it’s brilliant right at the moment. He pushes into her in one long, smooth stroke that leaves her gasping. It’s absurdly good—the pressure, the heat, the deep, satisfying stretch as her body adjusts to him. Jesus, and it’s Malcolm—_Malcolm Tucker_—who feels like that inside her. She meets his eyes and for once they are on exactly the same page: shocked and appalled at how good they feel together.

Of course, he doesn’t let the moment last. “Christ, Nicola, your fanny get this fucking wet every time we fight?”

If she’d thought shagging might bring out a softer side of him, she’d have been wrong. Dirty talk is more in line with the Malcolm she knows, anyway. So is the hand he puts over her mouth. He’s not that gentle about it, although in fairness, this is his office, which is in—no, now is not the time. In any case, it’s Malcolm’s fault she’s so loud. He’s obviously a secret wizard who has rearranged her vocal cords to connect directly to her clitoris, which he is touching just so with his other hand, each movement of his fingers setting off a spark of pleasure she can feel all over her body.

And okay, she’d have been just as wrong if she’d imagined him as some kind of dominant sex master. He doesn’t seem to mind that her hands are all over him, clinging to his back as she presses herself against him, working in under his vest to make contact with his bare skin. He’s surprisingly pliant, looking her in the eye and letting her direct him where she wants him. His mouth falls open and he looks a little stunned as she shifts her hips and wraps her legs around him to take him deeper.

The new angle feels amazing. He’s filling her everywhere, hitting all her sweet spots. She tries to match his pace, keeping their movements in sync so she can wring every bit of sensation from his thrusts. Hot tension builds inside her, spiraling higher and higher. Someone is making noise, and—no, that isn’t her. Malcolm’s hand is still on her mouth, muffling her sounds. It’s him. He’s groaning, in an obvious and not even slightly deniable way, every time he pushes into her.

Fuck. This must be good for him, if he’s so lost in it that he can’t hear himself. That’s—God, that’s—she could come from that alone. She almost does, her inner walls contracting and fluttering for a moment before the spike of heat levels off.

Still, they have to be quiet. She tugs his hand away from her mouth. She’s so close it’s difficult to speak. Her “Quiet, Malcolm, for fuck’s sake, quietly!” comes out in a strangled gasp, and it doesn’t seem like it’s getting through.

Swearing, she pulls him in and mashes their lips together. He seals his mouth over hers in a kiss that turns messy as he completely loses control. He thrusts wildly and comes with a whine and a full-body shudder. His fingers twitch against her and she’s coming, too, pulsing hard around him, her vision exploding into pinwheels. She’s shouting again—kissing him wasn’t the right solution for the noise problem at all—but she can’t hold it in.

She slumps against him afterwards. She probably couldn’t move even if she wanted to, but she doesn’t want to. It’s nice right here, holding him, listening to his heart pounding and feeling him where he’s still inside her. His body feels good. She’s going to enjoy it for as long as she can, so that she doesn’t have to think about anything else, like the fact that he can pick up the phone and destroy her with one call, then mount her on a pin in his collection of ministers he’s fucked over—or fucked and fucked over, since apparently he goes in for that. He’s going to emerge from this post-coital haze any moment now, and after that there will be loads of time for regret.

But he doesn’t snap out of it. He’s gentle about pulling out and keeps a careful hold on her after, making sure she finds her footing as she slides shakily down from his desktop. He stays close as her gaze skitters toward the doors, checking that they’re still closed as she shoves her skirt back into place with her free hand.

Fuck, she needs a plan for getting out of Number 10. That should be Malcolm’s remit—honestly, how has he not thrown her to the wolves already?—but he still hasn’t come around. For the so-called dark lord of spin, he’s looking uncannily mild and harmless, tucking himself away and fastening his trousers, not scrolling through his BlackBerry for the numbers of his tabloid cronies.

Well, if he’s too far gone to do anything, she’s going to make herself at home. Maybe if she hides for long enough—the next ten years, for instance—anyone who was listening outside will have forgotten she was here. She staggers across to the antique sofa under the window and collapses onto it, dragging an arm over her face so she can pretend he’s not there.

It’s no good. There are small sounds of him moving, adjusting his clothing and retying his tie. The floor creaks as he crosses the room. The sofa cushions sag under his weight as he sits down next to her. She shifts her arm a little to see him sitting there, staring at his hands, touching his lips, and looking—uncertain? Confused? It’s too much to deal with. She closes her eyes and lets herself drift away.

~

She’s warm and not very comfortable, and someone is shaking her. Ugh. She doesn’t remember falling asleep in her office, but she must have—exhausted by some fiasco to top off a long week, probably. She pries open her eyes, and—fucking hell. This isn’t her office. This is Malcolm’s office in Number 10. She’s on Malcolm’s sofa, with Malcolm, who she’s—her memory comes crashing back. Fuck. She fucked Malcolm, she fell asleep, and now she’s woken up to discover that she’s lying on top of him. He’s still not saying anything, only staring at her again, those pale, magnetic eyes uncomfortably close. She’s not wearing any knickers.

It’s an undignified scramble to disentangle herself. The antique sofa is softer than it looks, and Malcolm is a dead weight between her and the edge of the cushions. He’s no help at all. He just lies there, slowly baring his teeth in a wolfish grin as one of her knees slips between his thighs and she braces her hands against his chest to keep her balance.

“I don’t know, Nicola,” he finally says as she presses down on his shins to lever herself up. “I’m not an expert on these things, but I think you should have bought me dinner first. Maybe some fucking flowers. I like long-stemmed red roses.”

Oh no. The real Malcolm is back. The real Malcolm is back, and it seems like he wants to play with her before he goes in for the kill. 

“You started this, you absolute bastard!” She glares at him as she stomps across the room. Her knickers are on the floor under his desk, and she refuses to continue this conversation until she’s wearing them.

“Yeah, okay, but you didn’t exactly say no, did you?” He’s still sprawled on the sofa, watching her, and there’s something calculating in his gaze, like he’s considering whether he’d get better mileage out of leaking the _Scummy Mummy Adulterous Sex Romp_ story to the _Sun_ or the _Daily Mail_.

Maybe deep down she really was hoping she would get away with it, because she’s angry that the real Malcolm is back, needling her and enjoying her discomfort. He shagged her, and now he’s going to sell her out to the press for it. Well, she knew it was going to happen, didn’t she? That’s what he does, collects dirt and flings the mud over everything he can reach. She has no right to be hurt. No right to be disappointed.

“I knew you’d find a way to use it against me either way, so you can’t blame me for taking what I could get,” she shoots back over her shoulder as she steps into her knickers and reaches for her tights. She might as well get dressed in front of him; it’s not as though she has any dignity left, anyway.

Malcolm doesn’t gloat or shout back like she’d have expected. In fact, he seems to shrink on the sofa. “I wouldn’t use this against you in the press, if that’s what you’re thinking,” he says with a hollow laugh. “It would be a fucking terrible look for me if I did, wouldn’t it?”

A terrible look for him? As if the consequences for him would be anything like they would be for her. “Women don’t win when it’s he-said-she-said, Malcolm,” she snaps. She shouldn’t have to tell him. God, some of his least savory acts of manipulation have exploited it. However much they both wanted to do what they did in the moment, she’s at his mercy now.

Malcolm rubs his hands over his face. He’s looking haggard again, as bad as he was earlier. “Fucking tell me that wasn’t why you said yes.”

Wait—oh. Oh, Christ. She doesn’t hate him or regret shagging him enough to leave him thinking that. She sits back down on the sofa so she can look him in the eye. “Christ, Malcolm, no. It—it crossed my mind, okay? But I didn’t care. I fucking wanted it. As I said, I was going to take what I could get, you know, before you got over your obvious psychological breakdown and I don’t know, called in the hacks, or thought better of the whole thing, or whatever.” It sounds even worse now that she’s saying it out loud. This certainly hasn’t been her finest hour, either.

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to argue. “I—what?”

Apparently that wasn’t the line of reasoning he was expecting. She’s seen that stunned expression on his face more this afternoon than in her entire previous acquaintance with him.

“God, I wasn’t even sure you were in your right mind, and I went for it anyway.” Malcolm makes another weak attempt at protest, but she’s going to get this out. “Shut up. You dragged me out of a chair and kissed me! You’re trying to keep a dying government on life support and you’re in over your head! No, admit it,” she adds, as he starts to bristle again. She really should have raised it with him weeks ago, only she liked having all her limbs attached to her body. “Do you think you need to speak to someone?”

That’s better. She can almost see the fight coming back into him. He should really speak to a professional, she didn’t say that just to drive home her point, but at least it looks like she’s convinced him that he didn’t pressure her into anything she didn't want.

“Listen, he says, “I was _compos_ fucking _mentis_, right? I knew what I was doing. I mean, what I was doing was rolling across the stage to claim the fucking Nobel Prize of bad decisions, but I was very fucking well aware of it.”

Well, poking the bear and all that. What else did she expect?

“The Nobel Prize of bad decisions? Oh, that’s nice, Malcolm.”

“What, don’t you agree that this was a terrible fucking idea? I know your head is three-quarters fluff, Nicola, but I’d have thought even you had the brains to figure that out, somewhere under all that hair. Which you’re going to have to fucking do something about before you leave this room, by the way. You look like a poodle gone wild at the Westminster Dog Show.”

The real Malcolm is definitely back. More concerned about sexual ethics than she’d have guessed, at least in his own private affairs, but back, and as infuriating as ever.

“It seems like a worse idea every time you open your mouth.”

“Hark!” Malcolm says, raising his head and lifting his hands skyward as if he’s announcing a miracle. “It’s the most sensible thing she’s said since she was appointed to cabinet.”

The urge to roll her eyes is familiar and comfortable. It might be the way out of this. Cross her arms, roll her eyes, tune him out as he rants for a while, and see if things go back to normal. But maybe she doesn’t really want things to go back to normal, because her mouth has opened and is moving on its own. “It was good, though. I mean, it was, um—it was really good for me. Not just because I haven’t had much to compare it to lately.”

She has never fully appreciated until now, as she’s trying to hide her flaming cheeks and stifle her giggles of embarrassment, how eloquent Malcolm’s eyebrows can be. “Oh, God. Forget I said that.”

“I never forget anything,” Malcolm says, deadpan. “Do I need to fucking remind you that I’m like the proverbial elephant?”

Under normal circumstances, Nicola would take that as a threat. Of course, under normal circumstances it would be a threat. That’s not what it feels like now, though. It feels more like they’re back up on the edge of that cliff, holding their breath this time, and waiting to see who’s going to jump off first. There’s a long pause.

Malcolm cracks first. Something tumbles into place in his expression, and he turns toward her with a sideways half-smile. “You know, Nicola, if you needed more data—I mean, for comparison…” He trails off suggestively. “We could make it a proper fucking study, yeah?”

It’s not even a good line, certainly not for Malcolm, whose turn of phrase probably violates the Geneva Convention on a regular basis. The swell of—oh fuck, almost fondness, that comes over her in response is a shock. This is how people decide to have affairs, isn’t it? 

Malcolm doesn’t seem to be expecting it either. When she winds her arms around him and pulls him in for a kiss, he stiffens in surprise for just a moment before sliding his fingers into her hair and responding, extensively, in kind.

She was absolutely right, earlier. The damage is already done. The damage is done, and the worst of it is that there’s nothing she’s looking forward to more than digging the hole deeper.

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, it took months, but I finished the thing! I still don't know quite where it came from, except that [amoama](/users/amoama/)'s slightly deranged and obviously unreliable narrator Malcolm compelled me to write Nicola's version of events. I've done my best, and I hope you like it even a fraction as much as I enjoyed writing it!


End file.
